


Singed (Prologue Draft)

by someonewhocantwrite (CaneofDirtyhands)



Series: Singed [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Fantasy, Imprisonment, Magic, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27500785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaneofDirtyhands/pseuds/someonewhocantwrite
Summary: A lone man wakes in an unfamiliar forest, the remains of his chains broken, along with his battered, naked body.
Series: Singed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185272
Kudos: 3





	Singed (Prologue Draft)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prologue draft for a little project that I've been thinking about for maybe about six months. Since I don't really have the time to write much I thought I might as well post this. I'm already thinking of some new details I want to add, but I wanted to see if anyone would like this by itself first—every story needs a good beginning.

The moon is shining iridescently in the otherwise ink-black sky, bright beams of light illuminating the figure settled in the clearing below.

The man rested, naked and unconscious, porcelain skin a shimmering white under the moon’s loving caress. Dark hair fanned out around his head, a demon’s halo tangled with the damp blades of grass he rested upon. Around his neck is the cold embrace of a metal collar, a broken chain still attached to the U-ring. Bruises paint his otherwise unmarked flesh, startling shades of yellow, black, purple, pink.

  
Across the clearing, something slithers along the ground, brick-red scales flashing under the moon’s light. Red, slit-pupiled eyes are latched onto the unconscious figure of the chained man, tongue flicking to taste his scent; blood, death, and decay—the smells of the Zamahr’s realm—along with the faint aroma of lavender and roses—the smell of him.

  
The red-eyed serpent brushes its lithe body up his form, trying to reduce its need to wrap around him and never let go. After all, there was no way it could warm him up with this body. It makes its way up to stare at the man’s resting face, examining his angular features. Sharp cheekbones, thin lips, triangular jawline. It scrutinized the bruising under his eyes, resting under his lashes; the man had not rested peacefully for a long while.

  
It flinched at the twitch of his eyelids, slowing backing away from his face. It wanted nothing more but to whisk him away and find somewhere warm for him to rest or find him something to eat, but it felt as if this man would not appreciate the sight of it so soon after waking up, especially if he was confused—which he was bound to be.

Vergall opened his eyes with a gasp, suddenly blinded by the sudden brightness of the light source above him. He coughs at the scratch of his throat, shakily pushing himself upright on weak arms. His frail chest heaves, ribs aching with the effort.

  
He is startled by the feeling of a breeze, light and barely there. He shivered, before realizing that there should have been no such thing as a breeze. Not where he should be. But then he feels the damp grass beneath his fingers, tickling the palms of his hands. He sees the open, unending sky above him, only the moon present within its blue-black depths. He sees the trees, tall and strong, leaves as green as his emerald eyes. He hears the hoot of an owl, sudden and loud, making him jump. He then feels the uneven break at the end of the chain thumping against his back, ice against his skin.

  
He’s not in some dank dungeon surrounded by the cries of other prisoners. He’s not chained to the wall or feeling the literal burn of another’s touch on his skin. He’s not kneeling at the leather boot-covered feet of another man, begging for forgiveness for his one stupid mistake that had ended it all for him, ruining his life and sentencing him to forever live as a worthless prisoner who had been so dumb as to—

  
He cries, quiet tears blurring his vision and tracking wet trails down his pallid face. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry for years, not since those first few months of his imprisonment, but now he was free. Somehow, he was unchained and in an unfamiliar place filled with the light of a blue moon.

  
Somehow.

  
He didn’t bother to question exactly how he had escaped confinement. There was no way he himself had the strength to break through his binds or even make it past the guards. He had no idea how he had ended up in another realm other than his own, since he didn’t remember having any knowledge about how to do such a thing.

  
By the time he managed to get his bearings and stand up on weak legs, the sun could be seen peeking over the horizon, a sliver of oranges, pinks, and yellows dyeing the edge of the sky. He stumbled to the edge of the clearing and leaned heavily against the nearest tree, feeling the damp bark against his naked skin. He shivered as a breeze rustled the leaves above, reminded of the chill that pierced through the layer of pain that had encased his body.

  
He pushed on, clenching his jaw as his muscles throbbed a dull pain. He eventually found a long stick sturdy enough to hold his weight, grasping it with both hands as he used it to limp all the way to the edge of the forest. In front of him was a vast field thriving with crops, yellow wheat shining gold in the light of the recently risen sun. Interrupting what seemed to be a never ending sea of food crops were unorderly patches of vibrantly colored flowers, tall and proud and beautiful. He stood in awe for a moment at the scene before him, for his birthplace had never been so colorful. The people had been dull and colorless in both their physical appearances and their lifestyles, and they were rather cold and often cruel, and thrived on schadenfreude. This new place he had found was so new and so different, and it was perfect.

  
He shoved his admiration aside when another twinge of pain passed through his body, shuffling forward. A lone figure came into view, crouching, almost hidden by a tower of pink flowers that Vergall did not recognize. Even though the figure, another man, wasn’t standing, he could tell that he was rather large and well-muscled. He couldn’t pick out any other details since his vision was rapidly darkening, blurring everything around him.

  
Vergall pressed on, determined to find help. Although it would do him good to be cautious, he knew that if he went on for too long by himself, he would die, and he would not die––not after he had finally been freed of his chains.

  
But he could no longer hold himself up with his walking stick with his trembling fingers. It fell from his hands, and he dropped to his knees before he fell painfully on his battered chest, one cheek pressed against cool, rich soil, not yet warmed by the sun’s rays. He felt a hand on his back, and he barely managed to try and shake it off before his vision was completely taken and his mind was shrouded in darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know, I would probably write more if my computer wasn't so shit.


End file.
